


A Dream Come True

by erinacea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Hogwarts House Sorting Ceremony, Hogwarts Letters, Sorting Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-24
Updated: 2005-09-24
Packaged: 2020-08-11 13:02:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20154040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erinacea/pseuds/erinacea
Summary: Mark Evans likes reading stories about fantastic creatures, about wizards and witches. Just like most kids, he loves those stories, but he doesn‘t expect them to be real. Then, on his eleventh birthday, he receives a letter that might change his life forever. But, times being what they are, will he get this chance? (Oneshot, slightly AU)





	A Dream Come True

**Author's Note:**

> If you feel like you've seen this story before, you probably ran across it on FictionAlley.org, where I posted it in 2005 under the pen name "Hedgehog".
> 
> Like many fans, I had speculated on the significance of the mention of Mark Evans in the same book (Order of the Phoenix) that we learned that Lily's maiden name had also been Evans. I wrote this short story about Mark coming to Hogwarts that, since that didn't end up happening, became very slightly AU. I also used the opportunity to explore a bit what it means for a Muggle-born to join the wizarding world on the brink of a war.
> 
> HUGE thanks to my betas, PhoenixLament and Cammy-crystal, both of whom helped me tame summary and (the initial version of this) story. Special thanks to PhoenixLament for taking the trouble to unknot my run-on sentences, insert even MORE commas, as well as for providing the much needed ego boost. :o) You two were awesome!
> 
> Before uploading this here, I made some minor edits, mostly related to formatting as well as some tweaks to dialogue here and there. Uploaded in August 2019.

When Mark Evans woke up on the fifth of July it took him about ten seconds to realize the importance of that day. Excited, he hopped out of bed, checked the clock on his bedside table - _no, it was not too early -_ and raced out of his room and down the stairs. Already the delicious smell of freshly baked biscuits was wafting through the house, and he could hardly wait to see the birthday cake he knew his parents had prepared for him. Mark skipped down the last two steps and peeked into the living room.

Right now, his parents were both busy laying the table for three, and his mother was still fussing over the decorations. Apparently they were too occupied to notice the entrance of their ten, nay eleven-year old son.

Mark jumped out from behind the door and shouted, “Surprise!”

His parents whirled around at once, his father still holding the cake forks. Not to be outdone, they yelled “Surprise!” back at him, and then started singing “Happy Birthday.” When they had finished, all three of them fell about laughing. Mark felt slightly embarrassed about all of this, but also extremely happy.

Still a little out of breath, his mother enfolded him in a tight hug and kissed him. “Happy birthday, dear,” she said, squeezing him gently. “We wish you all the best you could wish for.”

“Look what we've bought you,” his dad said, when she finally let go of him, and he steered his son to a shiny yellow bicycle that someone (his mother, most likely) had adorned with a huge red bow. “Happy birthday, Mark,” his father finished somewhat more seriously, hugging him.

Mark smiled at his father's antics. “Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mum.” And he hugged both of them once more.

When Mark, on the order of his mother, reappeared showered and properly dressed, they had their superbly unhealthy birthday breakfast - consisting of chocolate cake and biscuits - in the living room, instead of the kitchen. Mark opened presents and read his birthday cards out to his parents, who were watching him proudly. He had just unwrapped _Silver on the Tree_ and had already started reading, when there was a loud crash and a screech at the window.

His father's chair went flying as he jumped up in shock. “What was _that_?”

Mark himself had only looked up at the sound, so all he had seen was something dark fall from the window. He shrugged. “Maybe some bird.”

As if that had been her cue, his mother stood up resolutely and marched over to the window to check. Mark could have guessed that reaction, really. His mum might work at the post, but her great love and hobby were birds. Meanwhile, his dad sheepishly went to retrieve his chair.

“Why, yes, you're right,” Mark's mum wondered out loud as she opened the window, causing Mark to jump up to see it for himself.

Curiously, he looked out of the window. As the living room was on the ground floor, the bird had not fallen deep, but it still looked somewhat shell shocked. It was lying on its back and held itself quite still. Only its clawed feet were feebly moving about. The feathers on its belly were white, as was what could only be termed as its face. It had sharp dark eyes and an equally sharp beak. Also, from what Mark could see of the upper side of its wings, they were a brownish colour, which would explain the dark shape he'd seen earlier.

“It's a barn owl,” his mother explained to him, already stepping out into the garden to tend to the bird. “The poor thing. I wonder what he's doing here. They usually avoid the urban area.”

From his vantage point, Mark was able to watch her carefully poke at the bird, then gently turn it on its feet.

“And in broad daylight!” Mark's father exclaimed, finally moving to have a look at it as well. “Are you sure it's an owl?”

“Perfectly sure,” her voice came from the garden, and Mark felt inclined to believe her. If she said it was a barn owl, chances were she was right, however implausible it might sound. Apart from that, it really _looked_ like an owl, not that he'd ever seen a real live one before. Not close-up like that, at least.

“Oh, but he appears to be all right,” his mum then said, sounding relieved. And indeed, moments later, the bird was flapping its wings and set out to fly. Instead of disappearing into the distance, though, the owl plunged toward the ground as if to pick something up, then made a sharp turn and came shooting directly at Mark, who hastily jumped back. Then it flew through the window and drew some circles above Mark's head before it finally settled on the table where it dropped whatever it held in its beak.

“Umm, don't you want to fly outside again?” his father tentatively suggested from a safe distance, shooing at it.

“Maybe it doesn't like the light, so it came inside because it's darker,” Mark suggested excitedly.

“Maybe,” his father conceded, “but I think it's more likely that it took some damage to the head. Lauren?”

Mark's mother had already re-entered the house and was now staring at the bird, that was currently helping itself to some biscuit crumbs. “Oh my. I've never heard of an owl to behave so oddly.”

Dusting off her hands, she shook her head, and then left the room. Moments later, she returned carrying her coat.

“Look, I'm sorry, Mark. I know it's your birthday and all, but we can't leave that bird here. I could bring him to the zoo - he appears to be tame, so maybe someone's missing him. It's really lucky I've got a day off today with so much happening.”

“Or we could all go to the zoo,” his dad suggested. “I know we agreed to go to the cinema, but after that excitement, I'd rather get some fresh air.”

While his parents were debating what to do about the owl, Mark examined it more closely. It did not seem to be frightened in the slightest, and when he moved to touch its feathers, the owl leaned into the touch. Then, quite suddenly, as if it had remembered something, it jumped up and nudged at a yellowish roll of paper that Mark had not noticed earlier.

“Mum, Dad, it's got something. It looks like a note.”

“What!?” His mother was indignant. “Do you mean someone trained him? Barn owls are wild animals. I'm sure that's against the law for the protection of animals! Maybe we shouldn't go to the zoo, but call the police instead.”

“It doesn't look like anyone's hurt it,” Mark objected.

The owl had now stopped picking at the tied scroll, and was instead staring at him sharply, but more in an expectant than a threatening way. Mark had no idea how he knew that, but he was certain of it.

“Maybe it's a post owl,” his father joked. “Go on, Mark, take the letter - you're the birthday boy.”

His mother made to protest, probably about the dangers of touching wild animals, but the owl had already backed away a bit, enough for Mark to grab the letter. It was as if it had understood what they had said, which was a bit eerie. The roll was a little squashed and slightly wet from where the owl had held it in its beak. Hesitantly, Mark began to untie the string that held the note, then gave up and just pulled it off. But before he was able to unroll the message and read it, the owl threw itself into the air, soared out of the open window, and disappeared.

Mark's father made an incoherent sound. “Er, that did not just happen?”

His mother sat down weakly, staring after the bird. “I'm not sure myself.” After a pause she added, “Now, what does it say?”, impatiently gesturing at the letter that Mark was still clutching, wide-eyed.

Mark nervously unrolled the parchment, and read out:

_Mr M. Evans_

_The Living Room_

_15 Primrose Park_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

He stopped to lick his lips and stared at his parents nervously. They were staring back at him in equal blankness. Mark fumbled with the paper and read on.

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

He stumbled over several of these unknown words, and then gazed at his parents for reassurance. When they did not react, he looked down again and continued reading.

_Dear Mr Evans,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A representative of the school will be arriving shortly to take care of any confusion._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

His father finally found his voice. “That is - er - very unusual. A very elaborate joke.”

“But the owl –”

“Very unusual, as I said.”

His mother plucked the letter out of his hands and perused it sceptically. She probably didn't trust Mark's recital, and he couldn't really blame her.

“Whoever did this knows their stuff,” she finally proclaimed. “I mean this looks like real parchment, and to train an owl like that...” It was obvious that his mum did not know what to do with the situation either.

“They've certainly got their imagination running wild. _Supreme Mug-wump. Hog-warts. Order of Merlin._” Mark's father stressed the syllables of every one of these strange words, as he read over her shoulder. “And then the letter. Rather convincing, don't you think? I bet they could make a lot of money writing books about that instead of sending post owls to unsuspecting people.” He sounded more and more impressed. Maybe he was thinking about working this letter into one of his unfinished novels that were gathering dust in the attic.

“I think it was one of those boys. I wouldn't put it past them to play tricks on people like that. And they don't like Mark.”

“Nah –” Mark's dad disagreed.

“Too stupid!” Mark supplied, grinning.

“So, who else?” his mother wondered, waving the roll of parchment about. She seemed intent on finding the culprit.

“Maybe it's true,” Mark suggested, only half joking. “Maybe I'm a wizard and don't know it. Wouldn't that be cool?”

“Oh, Mark,” his father tried to calm him down. “You know as well as I do –”

But he never got around to saying what he knew because at that precise moment the doorbell rang.

His parents looked at one another as though they were unsure how to react.

Mark cheered, “It's the reprevent - , represant-, ah, someone from the school!”

He made to run for the front door but his father held him back with a stern expression. “We’ll go look who it is, but really, Mark, you shouldn't get your hopes too high.”

Glumly, Mark followed his father into the hall. _Don't get your hopes too high. _He didn't really see why not. In the books, it was always on their birthday that kids learned about their special powers. Okay, that was books, so... He sighed.

With Mark and his dad arguing, his mother had been faster than either of them. She now stood in front of the door, looking nervous. The doorbell rang again. She took a deep breath and flung open the door.

On the front steps stood the most bizarre man Mark had ever seen. He was _tiny_, smaller even than Mark, who was by no means a giant, and that, together with his violet cloak and pointed hat, made him look like he had just escaped from a circus.

“Good morning, Mr and Mrs Evans. The name's Filius Flitwick, and I'll be one of Mark's Professors at Hogwarts,” he said in a squeaky voice, stepping into the hall while Mark's mother held the door wide, her mouth hanging open.

Eventually she got a grip on herself and closed both her mouth and the door, but still she never took her eyes from the small man. Flitwick, meanwhile, was dusting off his cloak and peered interestedly around the hall. When he spotted Mark, he beamed at him and repeated, “I'm Professor Flitwick, and you must be young Mr Evans.”

“Er, yeah,” Mark replied, shaking his hand. He felt a bit uncomfortable at the adult greeting, but at the same time strangely proud.

“So, erm, Mr Flitwick - Professor, was it? What subject is it that you teach?” his father made a hesitant attempt at conversation, though it was clear he hadn’t believed a word of it.

“Charms,” the teacher replied happily.

“Charms,” Mark's mother repeated dubiously.

“Why, yes. It's a fascinating subject.” He beamed at them.

“Erm, maybe we should take this into the living room,” Mark's mum suggested, now really flustered.

When they had reached the living room, Mark's parents waited politely until their guest had sat down. There he sat, barely able to look onto the table and with his legs dangling high above the floor, but looking pleased as Punch. If it hadn't been for his wrinkled and rather hairy face, Mark could have taken him for a child. He had taken off his cloak and it was now hanging from the back of his arm chair. His hat he had put onto the table.

“Drinks, anyone?” Mark's father finally broke the silence, looking as if he could use a beer or two, but knew full well that he would not be allowed. Not on his son's birthday.

Mark still had some cocoa from breakfast, and clearly neither of his parents felt up to anything non-alcoholic right then, but Flitwick requested iced tea of all things offered.

Once everyone had been served, Mark's dad was last to sit down at the table, and now all three Evans' were casting nervous glances at their visitor, who had picked up _Silver on the Tree_ and smiled to himself as he skimmed the blurb on the back of it. Finally he put the book down again and smiled at the three of them.

“I take it you received your owl then,” he addressed Mark, nodding at the note that his mum - to her obvious surprise – still held in her hand.

Mark nodded excitedly, then blurted out the most pressing question. “Is it true? Am I really - I mean...” It sounded so stupid to ask if he really, truly and absolutely really... was a _wizard_.

Flitwick nodded happily. “Why, yes, of course.”

“So you mean to tell us that these stories are true? That witches and wizards and dragons and stuff - that they all really exist?” Mark's father had always been rather sceptical of what he called “that new age insanity”, but now for the first time Mark was actually disappointed to see him like that.

“I understand that it comes as a bit of a shock to you, but yes, indeed, witches and wizards are real. Like Mark and me, for example, they are _real_ people who have abilities that _Muggles_ \- non-magical people, that is - don't have. Oh, and dragons and goblins, fairies and unicorns _do_ exist as well, but I confess that I've no idea as to the accuracy of their depictions in the Muggle literature.”

Mark's dad looked stunned for the moment, and Mark quickly used the opportunity before his dad could rally his senses. “Are you sure that I am one of these people with...” He lowered his voice. “_Special abilities_?”

“Quite so.” That never tiring grin again. “The Hogwarts Quill has never been wrong. Have you never done anything unexplainable, some phenomenon that nothing but magic could account for?” Flitwick squeaked.

Mark wracked his brain, but when he couldn't come up with anything, he shook his head glumly, his happiness deflating. He half-expected Flitwick to jump up now and announce the letter had been meant for next door’s neighbour’s boy or something, maybe that Timothy Wiggles who sometimes made fun of him at school.

“Well, there was once - but we thought... I mean, surely we didn't really look.”

Mark looked hopefully up at his mother, who, after some hesitation, explained, “When Mark was about five, he might not remember that… Well, we wanted to go visit his grandmother and we couldn't find the keys to the car. We searched everywhere, and Will was just phoning his mother, when Mark came in and said they were in his coat. Will's, I mean. Well, and when he looked, it turned out he was right, you know. The strange thing was we had searched all the coats and pockets several times already, and Mark had been upstairs the whole time, happily playing with his model railroad. We didn't even tell him we were looking for the keys. It was quite a bit spooky,” she finished with a shaky laugh.

Mark had listened wide-eyed, and now looked between his mum and Flitwick. “You mean -? Does this mean that I can do _magic_?” he breathed. “Like the people in the books?”

“Oh, but of course.” Again Flitwick nodded enthusiastically. Mark gaped. “It’s possible and, indeed, happens relatively often that the child of two Muggles will still possess magic power. This is what we call a Muggle-born witch or wizard. Most of these show some signs of magic in their childhood, but by no means all of them do. Still, your mother's story _does_ sound pretty convincing, don't you think?”

Mark nodded with equal enthusiasm.

“Erm, you said you were teaching Charms. Could you please, erm, _demonstrate_ maybe, what that might be?” his mum interrupted the moment, not entirely convinced.

“It will be a pleasure,” Flitwick chuckled. And, having climbed off the chair, he pulled out a long wooden stick, though with only about five inches length it looked longer in his small hands than it really was.

“Now since you are a wizard, I suppose that makes that thing a magic wand,” Mark's father questioned, still unconvinced.

Flitwick nodded happily, then lifted his index finger. “Watch this,” he said to all of them, and with a twirl of the wrist, among red and blue sparks a small flock of hummingbirds appeared into the room.

Both Mark and his mum gave exclamations of delight, even as the birds were dissolving into colourful sparks. Mark had jumped off his chair and was now clapping enthusiastically, while his mother was watching the last sparks disappear with a wistful look on her face. With a wry grin Mark thought that she was probably more impressed with the birds than the magical performance.

In contrast to his wife and son, Mark's dad refused to be won over with this demonstration. “Could you do another one? Something else, like...” He looked around for ideas. “How about turning that geranium over there into something different?” he asked, raising his eyebrows challengingly.

“Transfiguration is not really my forte – you’ll have to ask Professor McGonagall about that - but I’ll see what I can do,” the wizard squeaked, smiling up at him, not at all perturbed.

Mark's parents had now risen as well, the better to watch the performance. With a flick of the wand what had once been a flowerpot was now slowly crawling along the living room as a tortoise. Mark noticed that it still had a single petal growing from its carapace, and apparently Flitwick did, too.

“Whoops,” he chuckled. A flick of the wand later, the tortoise showed no sign anymore of having ever been anything else but a tortoise.

When Mark's mum began to look worried, Flitwick quickly turned the tortoise into a stylish lampshade, before replacing it with the geranium again. Apart from the fact that it now stood about three feet from where it had started out, nobody could not have told that anything had happened in between.

Mark was amazed. “Wow. D'you think I could give it a try? Please?”

“Oh, very well, but be careful.”

Mark reverently took the wand the tiny wizard held out for him. Glancing at Flitwick for confirmation, he gave his best to imitate the flick he had seen him perform. The plant glowed faintly pink for a moment, but otherwise stayed unchanged. Mark's face fell.

“Not to worry, not to worry, young man.” Flitwick reached up to pat him on the arm. “That'll change once you get a proper schooling. It's all a matter of concentration, and learning, and practise.”

“You think so?” he asked, a bit subdued, as he gave the wand back, but his question was drowned in one his father posed, now thoroughly excited.

“You, um, said something about charms earlier and then, ah, transformation. What would be the exact difference?”

Mark thought this was rather typical of him: once someone had managed to convince him _that_ something worked, he wanted to find out all about _how_.

“Hmm, all right. Let's see.” Professor Flitwick scratched his nose thoughtfully. “_Transfiguration_ means turning an object or living being into something else like you've just seen, while _Charms_ is the art of remodelling the appearance of an object, its properties, location, or placement in time, all the while leaving the _essence_ of the object untouched.”

Mark had understood next to nothing of that explanation, but felt a tiny bit comforted when he saw his dad's gob smacked expression.

His mum spoke up again. “So this, um, _Transfiguration_, is this another subject at this school?”

At Flitwick's nod she continued, “What else are they teaching at...” She glanced at the letter she was still clutching. “_Hogwarts_?”

“Well, the usual, really.” He beamed. “It's a very fine school, you must know, one of the best in all of Europe. Anyway, the subjects are Charms and Transfiguration, obviously, Astronomy, Potions, History of Magic, Defence Against the Dark Arts and Herbology, and there are some other ones that are optional choices in later years, such as Divination, Muggle Studies and Arithmancy.” Mark noted with amusement that he was counting the subjects off his fingers.

“I see.” She looked a bit confused, and also rather agitated. “What about the normal stuff? You know, like English and maths, or biology, geography, other languages? What about those?”

“We feel,” the wizard explained, “and I am speaking for the wizarding world as a whole here, we feel that should a wizard or witch not possess the basics that are necessary to comprehend a magical subject, then his or her parents are responsible for providing that education.” Mark's mother looked more than a bit taken aback at this proclamation. “Anything surpassing these necessary basics will not be taught at any wizarding school, though of course young witches and wizards are free and indeed invited to pursue other interests and broaden their horizon on their own. I myself am rather interested in Muggle history, and I know many a wizard with an expertise in chemistry or botany.”

That effectively took the wind out of her sails, as she often complained about the lack of independence and responsibility that was expected of British students. Mark vaguely wondered whether Flitwick could possibly have known about this. Then again, it was unlikely that she was the first concerned parent to ask such a question.

“Well, Professor, you see,” his dad joined back into the conversation, “there might be a problem concerning the, er -” he took a deep breath, “the finances. I'm a freelancing journalist, you see, and my wife doesn't earn a lot, either, so if this _Hogwarts_ is a private school, and it sure sounds like it, I'm not sure we can, you know, afford it.” His voice had been getting quieter at his last words, and by the end his ears were quite pink. He looked positively crushed. As much as he had opposed the idea of magic earlier, Mark knew there was no way he wanted to hurt him. Mark himself was not that worried. They were wizards, after all, so what did they need money for?

“Oh no,” the wizard replied genially, “I don't think it will be a problem. The schooling itself is funded for less well-off students, you see, so all you'd have to provide is the necessary equipment like robes and school books and so on.” With that, he pulled a parchment out from the inside of his robe and handed it to Mark's mother, who started to peruse it immediately. “Most of these can be picked up second-hand and if it comes to the worst, there are always some ownerless copies at the school. The most expensive will probably be his wand, but that is a purchase where it pays to invest a lot because the quality of the wand usually defines the quality of the wizard.”

At the mention of a wand, Mark, who had started to get a bit bored with all these financial details, perked up again. “I can get my own wand? Really? When?”

“Well, yes, of course.” Flitwick beamed. “And considering your earlier performance, I daresay that your wand won't contain unicorn hair as its core element.” He chuckled. “As to when, well,” he hedged a bit, “considering the current climate we think it unwise to allow Muggles or Muggle-born first years into Diagon Alley, so you’ll probably get to visit it later, together with other first years, and accompanied by certified wizards.”

“What do you mean, ‘the current climate?’” Mark's dad asked suspiciously.

Flitwick suddenly became very interested in his robes as he appeared to brush something off them. When he looked up again, his jovial smile had disappeared. “Well, the thing is, erm, that there's, well, that there's a bit of a conflict taking place in the wizarding world – more of a war - because a dark wizard –”

He was interrupted by a disbelieving exclamation of Mark's father, “A _war_!?”

“Well, yes, you see, this wizard –”

“How can you possibly expect us to let our child wander off into a _war_?!”

“I understand why you might be agitated, but you've got to see, in all likelihood your son will be safer at Hogwarts than he might be anywhere else.”

“_Safer_. Right,” Mark's dad spat. “Mark, forget it, there's no way we're sending you off to that asylum.”

Mark's head swivelled between the two men as he listened with growing consternation. He'd read and heard about wars, of course, and though it seemed such an unreal danger, he sometimes worried about getting involved in one. For now, however, the bigger problem seemed to be that his father had just forbidden him to learn to do magic. The thought crossed his mind that he probably ought to feel relieved about being kept safe, but he couldn't shake off the feeling that he'd be missing out on something, some sort of fantastic adventure.

Flitwick lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “It's the truth, I swear it. You see, Albus Dumbledore, who's Headmaster of Hogwarts, is the most powerful wizard of our times, and as long as he's there to protect the children...”

“In all honesty, Professor Flitwick,” Mark's mum spoke up again, “if you had children, or maybe you do, would you let them go to such a dangerous place?”

“The _world_ is a dangerous place, Mrs Evans,” the wizard squeaked in reply. “Children grow up and explore the world, that's how it happens. No, I do not have children of my own. I do, however, look after all of my students as if they were. It is hard to let them go, I know –”

“He's _eleven_!”

“That he is, and with that, he's old enough to begin his magical education. Are you going to deny him this?”

Mark felt anger bubbling up inside himself. What right did they have to talk about him as if he weren't in the room?

“No, I –” He broke off when the three adults stared at him, then continued in a small voice, “I _want_ to be a wizard. I want to learn how to do magic.”

“_Mark_.” His mother sounded as strict as she hadn't in a very long time. “I'm sorry, but that is not for you to decide. We will _not_ allow you to put yourself into danger.”

“But Mum...”

“No.”

“Your mother is right, Mark. Before today, you had no idea about _wizards_, and maybe it would have been better if it had stayed that way.” His father sounded strangely resigned. “We only want the best for you, Mark.”

Mark felt like crying. _It's my birthday. _“It's my birthday,” he said stubbornly, as if that might change their mind.

“Oh, congratulations!” Professor Flitwick's bright smile had reappeared. “Happy birthday!”

Mark glowered, tears prickling in his eyes. _As if. _

His mum's expression softened at the sight of him and she pulled him into her arms. Over his head she asked, “What did you mean, he might be safer at Hogwarts?”

“Well, this is not a Muggle war, but a wizarding one. That means it won't be fought with guns, and bombs, and tanks, but with wand power. With spell work and curses. Naturally, the best way to protect yourself from these attacks is to learn to cast magical shields, and how to fight a wizard's duel, and that knowledge is something only Hogwarts can provide your son.”

Mark's mum had stiffened, though she had not let go of him. Meanwhile, Mark's dad had calmed down enough to argue logically. “Well, that might be, but if he doesn't even enter that world, he won't become a target. And that means that ultimately he will be safer in the - what was it? - er, _normal_ world.”

“Well, _no_. Ultimately he will be safer as a wizard because, you see, this dark wizard - his name's _Voldemort_ -” Flitwick shivered and looked around nervously as he said the name. “But nobody calls him that - he's persecuting Muggle-borns and their families, you see, and –“

“Maybe we should take this to the study,” Mark's mother suggested, letting go of Mark again and sending her husband a meaningful glance.

“Yes, that might be a good idea,” his father agreed with a worried glance at Mark.

Mark curiously followed them out into the hall, but his dad caught up with him. “Now this might be a good time to acquaint yourself with your new bicycle. So why don't you do a few rounds with it, eh?”

Grumbling, Mark turned around again, but he moved as slowly and quietly as possible, so he was able hear Flitwick resume his explanation, “I am afraid you are sadly mistaken if you think the Muggle world is safe, because that bridge –” After that, all sound was muffled, as the study door had been closed.

Suddenly Mark found himself all alone, not knowing what to do to kill the time. On a normal day, that wouldn't have been a problem. Even on any other birthday, Mark would gladly have followed his father's advice to run in his bike. Right now, however, nothing could have made him leave the house for fear of missing something. He knew that his parents and Professor Flitwick were discussing the _wizarding_ _war_, and whatever conclusion they would come to, it would decide whether he, Mark Evans, up to now a normal boy, would grow up to be a wizard. It was really unfair that his parents got to make such a decision for him. After all, it was all about _him_.

Mark impatiently tapped his fingers on the table where he had stopped his pacing. He gazed down at the small heap of presents, and sighed. Without paying attention to it, his fingers drew patterns on the table cloth: first wavy lines, then stars, and a matchstick man that was wearing a pointed wizard's hat and held a wand. When he watched himself doodling an owl, Mark forcefully pulled himself out of the reverie and picked up _Silver on the Tree_ again, determined to read a bit and forget all about everything until his parents came back out of the study.

This proved to be much harder than he'd have liked, however, as he just couldn't seem to be concentrating on what the characters were saying. This was highly unusual as he normally would ‘drown’ in a book, as his father teasingly called it. Mark had barely started on the fifth page when he unconsciously glanced up. When he had reached that sentence earlier, the owl had crashed against the window. Now the sky was completely owl-free. Mark scowled, and forced himself to reread the last few lines. The image of Flitwick browsing the blurb swam before him.

This was no use. Mark slammed the book shut and jumped up. He crept out into the hall again, but while he could hear the murmur of voices, he could not understand what they were saying. He supposed that meant they had stopped arguing. It was a pity they had glass doors because that meant that there was no way he could eavesdrop without being seen. For a while, he stayed and watched his father's shape pace about the room, then sit down again. His mother was speaking now, but he couldn't make out her words. This was all so frustrating, and it really didn't look like they'd finish soon.

Dejectedly, Mark returned to the living room. He briefly considered going for a ride, after all, but pushed that thought away, same as the one about going upstairs to his room. Instead he continued prowling about the room. Flitwick's clothes were still where he had left them. With a furtive glance around, Mark took the cloak and draped it around his shoulders. He left the hat as that was a bit too small for him, but he happily filled some time posing in front of the mirror. Then he remembered that Professor Flitwick was a wizard, as well as his future teacher (he hoped), and hastily put the cloak back onto the back of the chair.

He made another track to the study, this time to hear Flitwick squeak something that, if he strained his ears, sounded like ‘auras’ and ‘security’, but the rest was unintelligible. His father appeared to be nodding, which might be a good sign, Mark thought. Then his mother seemed to be asking another question. There was a slight pause, and then Flitwick continued speaking incomprehensibly.

Couldn't they get to the point already? _Adults._ Mark rolled his eyes, once again moving back to the living room. He busied himself with examining the recently transfigured geranium, but it was just a boring pot plant now, nothing more.

When he was passing the table for the umpteenth time, his eyes fell on another sheet of parchment, the one that, he remembered, Flitwick had given to his mother. With nothing else to do, Mark picked it up, leant against the table, and started reading.

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_Uniform_

_First-year students will require:_

  1. _Three sets of plain work robes (black)_
  2. _One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_
  3. _One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_
  4. _One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)_

_Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry nametags._

Mark had just stopped reading to digest the notion of dragon hide, when he heard a door open and what sounded suspiciously like his dad's laugh. Throwing down the list, he raced into the corridor where he almost collided with his mother.

“Sorry. So, umm, what?” he gasped out excitedly.

His mum and dad smiled at each other, and Mark's heart soared. Yet he did not dare celebrate yet; they would have to say something first. After what seemed to be ages, Mark's dad finally opened his mouth. “Well, Mark, it turns out that Professor Flitwick will, indeed, be one of your Professors at Hogwarts.”

“You may go,” his mum added smiling, but he barely heard her.

With a loud, “YES!” he threw himself into his father's arms, then hugged and kissed his mother, and only barely stopped himself from hugging Professor Flitwick, too.

“Ah, someone's happy I think,” the wizard said, beaming. “Yes, Mr Evans, your parents have agreed to enrol you at Hogwarts. Term will start on the first of September, and you will have to catch the train at King's Cross at eleven o'clock, but you will be receiving a letter with all the details in due time.”

Looking more serious, he continued, “Now I must stress the need to keep the existence of the wizarding world in absolute secrecy. You may not tell any of your friends or discuss it with family other than your parents.”

Mark nodded, and Flitwick turned to his father. “This does include –”

“- fictional stories, I know. You already said so,” Mark's dad finished with a sigh of disappointment. Mark could almost see what was going on in his head. The fact that, unnoticed by normal, non-magic people, there was a whole community of wizards, witches and assorted mythical creatures would have made for fascinating reading indeed. He himself would be _living_ this adventure, so it didn't really matter. His dad, on the other hand, had probably already started sketching the plot for a whole series of novels, so it must be a real let-down to be forbidden to write about it.

“What would have happened, had we refused to sending Mark to Hogwarts?” his mum now enquired interestedly.

“We would have had to _Obliviate_ all of you, modify your memories, that is.” When Mark's mum still looked puzzled, the wizard explained further, “You would not have remembered anything about the owl, the letter, or this entire conversation. To you it would have been a completely normal day, and all you might have wondered is where the time has gone.”

“What? No! Surely that can't be legal!” she protested.

“Well, we can't allow Muggles to run around knowing all about the wizarding world, can we?”

“You can't just tamper with someone's memories...”

“I wouldn't have had a choice,” he said gravely.

“Why? What would have been the difference? All you have now is our promise not to tell,” Mark's father joined in.

“Now your son is or will soon be a part of the wizarding community, and naturally you are directly involved in this. Trust me, that makes all the difference.”

“But - That can't be... I mean this shouldn't be allowed.”

“We must agree to disagree on that,” Flitwick concluded firmly, and then entered the living room to fetch his clothes. Mark held his breath, but the wizard didn't appear to notice that someone had meddled with his cloak.

“Well, good-bye, Mrs Evans, Mr Evans. A very happy birthday to you, Mr Evans.” He shook hands with all of them and turned to leave.

Mark held him back, curiously asking, “Is it always on their birthday that you tell children that they're wizards?”

“Oh, no. No, that was coincidence. We only visit Muggle-born wizarding children, anyway, and the other letters are all sent out at the same time in the middle of July. But for the Muggle-borns we schedule the visits to take place before we send out the other letters, in case there are problems. These visits take place in alphabetical order, so you are among the first. So, no, that was complete coincidence. You got lucky, you did.” He winked at him. “Now, if that's all?”

Mark nodded. Flitwick reached for the handle, but Mark's father was quicker and held the door open for him.

“Thanks, Mr Evans. A good day to you, and, again, happy birthday,” he said once more as he stepped out onto the porch.

Then all of a sudden he was gone. There was a popping noise like air rushing in to fill a Flitwick-shaped vacuum, and then all was quiet. Mark and his parents still stood in the doorway, staring after him and left to ponder the day's extraordinary events.

~ * ~ * ~

By the beginning of August, Mark had read and enjoyed his birthday book, but the story paled in comparison to the one he so suddenly had found himself in. His Hogwarts acceptance letter already showed the number of times it had been read and reread, until his father had finally given in and had it framed.

“We can always say it was a joke letter for your birthday,” he had claimed.

But now, when it had almost been a month since they had heard from the wizarding world, Mark began to wonder whether it hadn't all been a dream, or some great hallucination that both he and his parents had suffered.

~ * ~ * ~

It wasn't until the evening of the third of August that the promised missive finally arrived.

“Mark!” his father's voice came floating into his room where Mark was lying on his bed and read.

He ignored the call and instead turned a page, as he knew they'd be calling him again if it was important. Besides, it was still a bit too early for dinner.

“Mark!” the shout repeated excitedly, “Come down and see.”

Grumbling, Mark put down the book, got up, and trotted down the stairs. When he entered the living room, though, he stopped in his tracks and stared. A white owl was sitting on the armrest next to his mother, who was now happily murmuring at the bird and stroking its head.

Mark excitedly flung himself at his parents. “Does it have a letter? What does it say?”

His father shot a mock glare at his wife. “Well, yes, but we don't know yet, as your mum won't relinquish the bird...”

Mark turned to gaze at his mother, then, uncomprehending, asked, “But why - I mean can't you simply take it?”

“Umm, no. This time the note appears to be tied to its leg, so all your mother would have to do – Lauren, dear?”

“Hmmm... he's a beauty, isn't he?” she sighed, but finally she lifted her gaze from the bird, and at their expectant expressions, she gave in and carefully untied the note from the leg that the owl obediently held outstretched. To all of their surprise (and his mum's delight), the owl did not immediately take flight, but instead settled itself onto its place in a way that indicated it was going to stay for some time. Mark's mum passed the parchment along to her husband, and continued petting the bird. Mark's dad quickly skimmed the letter, and his expression darkened. Then he reread it, more slowly.

“What does it say?” Mark shouted excitedly.

“Well, there appear to have been some, er, _disturbances_ in Diagon Alley, and now they think it won't be safe for you to visit there.”

At this, Mark's mother glanced up sharply. Her eyes narrowed, and she carefully got up, such as not to scare away the owl.

“Disturbances?” Mark could see her mouth at his father, who in response handed her the letter. Puzzled, Mark looked between them. Something was wrong, but he had no idea what that might be.

“How can they simply disappear?” his mum finally asked, dubiously.

Mark's father shrugged mysteriously. “I think what they're not saying is that this dark wizard –” At this, he broke off, as if he had suddenly remembered that Mark was standing nearby, which was probably the case. Frantically he whispered to his wife, and Mark strained to hear him: “Do you think we could still pull out of that contract?”

“Too late now, I suppose,” she sighed, then turned to Mark. “Well, you already know that there's a war in the wizarding world, and, erm, now it appears that some shopkeepers in that shopping district you were supposed to go to, well, they were... it appears they've disappeared, most likely have been attacked or something. And now the, er, _Ministry of Magic_ has decreed that… no - what was it?” She stopped to skim a few sentences, then continued, “Yes, here it is: that ‘no untrained witch or wizard should be allowed into any area of danger zone higher than...’ Anyway, that appears to include you, so –”

“Does this mean I can't go to Hogwarts?” Mark asked, wide-eyed. “I mean, if I can't get my wand and stuff?”

“Well, no - unless you've changed your mind?” his father prompted hopefully, but when Mark denied that with a loud, “No! Of course not!” he nodded as if he'd expected that. “No, they've included a couple of forms, so we can order your school books and things by owl. But you'll have to be fitted for your robes and, if I understand it correctly, the wand, as well. So they offered us a few dates to choose from, and then someone will come visit us for that.”

He took a deep breath, as though all of this was a bit too much for him, and then continued, “All we have to do is fill out the forms, and send them off with that owl over there.” He jerked his head into the bird's direction.

Mark nodded. That explained why the owl was still there; it was waiting to deliver the response.

It didn't take long for his parents to do the paper work, though they had a small discussion about the finances. It turned out that things weren't as expensive as they had feared, so they would be buying everything new and in high quality. Mark himself was rather bored with this whole line of conversation, and occupied himself by stroking the bird, which reciprocated the attention by gently nibbling at his fingers.

Eventually, his mother cautiously approached the two of them with the roll of parchment. The owl reacted immediately; it hopped up and held out its left leg again. Mark watched in fascination, first as his mum tied the letter to the owl's leg, and then as the owl spread its wings and flew out of the window.

Over the next couple of days, a myriad of owls arrived, carrying parcels full of assorted school books; others brought a telescope, scales and a set of glass phials. There even was a particularly large and heavy package that had to be carried by a large eagle owl, and that contained a pewter cauldron. Once, a young witch came by to take Mark's measurements, so he received brand new wizard robes. Another school owl delivered a letter containing directions to the school train.

“Platform nine and three-quarters!? That can't be right,” his father had exclaimed, to which Mark had responded with a shrug and, “Well, they're wizards.”

But what he had been really waiting for, his own magic wand, was last to arrive. The visit of the wand maker was scheduled for ten o'clock on a Wednesday, and while Mark's mum complained that she had to work that day, his father was not caught up in any obligations, and was almost as excited as Mark himself. On that particular day, both Mark and his dad rose early in eager anticipation of another witch or wizard to arrive.

At ten o'clock sharp the doorbell rang. But before Mark, who had been lurking in the corridor, waiting for that to happen, could even jump for the handle, the door sprang open of its own volition, and in stepped... a witch. Well, of course Mark knew that she was a witch, but she also really _looked_ like one. Her wide black robes did not conceal a slight hump, and from under the obligatory pointy witch's hat, long straggly black hair hung down. She even had a crooked nose. Mark could not help staring at her, though he knew it was impolite and he probably ran danger of being turned into a toad. When Mark shot a quick glance at his father to reassure himself, his dad appeared equally transfixed. The various stories of child-eating witches went through Mark's head, and when neither of the adults said anything, the weirdness of the situation only intensified. Then a pink poodle came through the door. Mark blinked.

The witch laboriously turned around and picked up the small dog, then closed the door. When she turned to face Mark again, she smiled in a way that showed several crooked teeth. “What you are thinking is a _hag_.”

_Huh?_ Mark only continued staring in befuddlement, now at the witch again, rather then her poodle.

“That child-eating monster you're thinking of,” the witch explained impatiently. “I am _not_ a hag, although there are rumours that one my ancestors was one.”

If she had meant to be reassuring, it did not really work. Still, the arrival of her pink poodle had managed to reduce the tension a bit, and Mark muttered, “I always thought witches had cats.”

“Bah! I don't like cats.”

That did not explain why she owned a poodle instead, and of such a glaring colour, at that, but Mark was not brave enough to question her choice in animals any further.

“Well,” his father now spoke up, “I'm William Evans, and this is my son Mark. And you would be?”

“I don't speak to _Muggles_,” the witch snarled at no one in particular. Both Mark and his dad recoiled.

Mark's dad was understandably indignant. “Look here, you –” At the last moment he caught himself from uttering something to yield disastrous consequences, and instead continued, more calmly, “This is _my_ house, and I will not allow any old hag to treat me or my family like that. If you can't talk in a civilized manner, you might as well leave.”

“Go!” she hissed, now brandishing a wand at him. “I don't like Muggles, and I don't plan to put up with them any second longer than necessary. Go, before I give in to temptation.” She showed her mossy teeth again, and then fell into some sort of eerie cackle. The dog yipped.

Mark's father protectively pulled his son behind him. “There's the door,” he stated, pointing into the direction she had come from.

“There's the door,” the witch repeated, pointing at the study door instead. Something in her tone made Mark's father take a step back, bumping into Mark, who was looking on, wide-eyed. “You, boy, stay here,” she croaked, beckoning for him. “You will need to choose your wand.”

To his own surprise, Mark felt his fear slowly ebb away. She might be vicious towards his father, and look terribly threatening, but he suddenly felt reasonably certain that she wouldn't really hurt him. Hesitantly, he stepped out from behind his father.

“Mark!” his dad hissed at him.

“It's okay, Dad. I'll be all right.”

“She said she doesn't like Muggles...”

“The boy's not a Muggle, he's a wizard. I can _smell_ the difference,” the witch clarified, again showing her crooked teeth again.

Mark's father looked dubious. “I won't leave my son alone with a mad- with a stranger.”

“Really, Dad. I think- I think she's right. If you stay, you're in danger, but I'm not... because I'm a wizard.”

“As if I would –”

“Please, Dad.”

“Are you sure?” He still didn't look entirely convinced.

Mark nodded, acting braver than he felt. “And I need my _wand_.”

The witch took a couple of steps forwards and laid her hand on Mark's shoulder. “Go!” she snarled a third time at his father, who finally fled.

“Well,” she then turned to Mark, “I'm Madam Grimalski. Nice to meet you, Mr Evans!” Again she smiled toothily. Mark hesitantly smiled back, as she steered him into the living room.

Once they were there, she pointed her wand at the table and muttered, “_Tabula Rasa_.” A forgotten glass of water disappeared, along with the day's newspaper, a flower vase, and the remote control, and the table was left empty. Mark blinked. Vaguely, he wondered about his mother's reaction at the loss of her favourite vase.

Madam Grimalski then whipped out a selection of boxes and started piling them onto the table with unbelievable speed. In between, the dog jumped up onto the table and began nudging the boxes around. Mark watched in bewilderment as it jumped down again, and then started hopping around him, sniffing.

“So,” the witch finally proclaimed. “Now we can start selecting a fitting wand. Which one should we try first?”

Mark shrugged, but the poodle yapped loudly.

“Hmm... yes, I think... this one might work. Beech wood, dragon heartstring, eleven inches.”

She opened one of the boxes, and held out the wand it contained. Mark carefully reached out, but he had barely touched it when he let out a sharp cry. Where the poodle had been, now sat a little brown frog that was croaking petulantly. Mark dropped the wand as if he'd been burned, and stammered helplessly, “I - I d-didn't d-do anything!”

“Of course you didn't,” she stated with a dismissive gesture of the hand. “He always does that. Stop that, Mephisto,” she called over her shoulder. The frog directed its bulbous gaze at her, croaked, and with a smacking noise the poodle reappeared, lolling its tongue.

Still shocked, Mark gazed at the poodle with a furrowed brow, and the dog stared back insolently. Uncomfortably Mark retreated. He decided that it might be better to be wary of that pink creature.

After that incident, the witch held out one wand after another for Mark to try out. He obediently waved each of them around, but although he had no idea what was supposed to happen, he was fairly sure it wasn't next to nothing. Apart from a very slight tingly feeling in his fingers, he could have been holding any old stick.

The witch grumbled something about, “not dragon heartstring then,” and went over to another pile of boxes. “Now, how about... willow, nine and a half inches, unicorn tail hair?”

“Professor Flitwick said unicorn hair wouldn't be it for me,” Mark pointed out carefully.

The witch sniffed. “Did he now? Well, try it out anyway.”

Mark took the wand and swished it, but, as before, nothing happened. Madam Grimalski refused to give in that easily and made him try out a few more wands containing unicorn hair, but as expected there was no effect. The wand maker huffed, but took back that last wand without protest.

By now Mark started feeling very worried and unhappy. What if they were all wrong, after all, and he really wasn't a wizard? What if he couldn't go to Hogwarts?

Meanwhile, the witch had started babbling, “It's a sad thing about Ollivander, really.” She sighed. “It's good for business, that it is, but he never would tell me where he got those phoenix feathers, and now I may never know ... but he was a fine man, Ambrosius was.” Again she sighed.

Mark stared at her, worried that she'd lost her mind. “Erm, sorry?”

“I don't have no phoenix wands for you,” she addressed him again. “We'll have to make do with something else. Let's see.”

Without any warning, she disappeared with a loud _Crack_! that made Mark jump. Drawn by the noise, his dad peeked through the door. “What's happened? Oh, good, is she gone?”

Before Mark could even think of a response to explain Madam Grimalski's temporary absence, her pink poodle started growling at his father. Then there was another _Crack!_ and Mark's father hastily closed the door. Luckily, the witch, laden with more dusty boxes, was too preoccupied to notice, even though the dog continued growling.

“Here, try this one. Contains the hair of a Banshee. Hush, Mephisto, I need to focus.”

Unfortunately, Mark received a sharp and painful jolt when he tried to grasp the proffered wand, and the same happened with another one that, according to the wand maker, was made of ‘Whomping Willow’.

“Too vicious, eh?” The witch cackled. “Maybe something friendlier? Lime tree and mermaid scale, rarely used for wands.” And she shoved another wand at him.

When Mark took the wand, a warm feeling spread into his wrist. He couldn't help the smile that was blossoming in his face.

“Aha, I see. We're getting there,” the witch commented his happy grin. The dog had jumped onto the table again, and was now dragging another box out of the heap. “Yes, that should be it. Scale of Ramora, a rare magical fish. Pine, ten and a half inches.”

Mark firmly grasped the wand, and this time the warmth didn't stop at his wrist, but continued spreading through his arm, and then into the rest of his body. Feeling confident, Mark raised the wand and brought it down in a sharp swishing gesture. Colourful sparks exploded from the wand, and he cheered. The dog had lost it completely, and was now racing around the living room, barking madly. To Mark's complete bewilderment, it was followed by a trail of bluish tinted smoke.

“That's that, then,” the witch stated in a business-like tone, and started collecting the scattered boxes of wands. When the table was empty again, she turned to Mark, “That'll be eight Galleons and fifteen Sickles. Your parents know how and where to pay because I won't take no Muggle money. Now, take care of your wand, and welcome to the wizarding world.” She grinned at him in a way that could almost be called a smile. Mark happily smiled back at her. Then she scooped up the poodle again; there was another _Crack!_ and she was gone.

A moment later, there was a second cracking sound as she reappeared. “I almost forgot,” she explained. “_Restorato_,” and the items that had formerly been on the table materialized half a foot above it. It was lucky that Mark stood close enough to prevent the vase from shattering. With a flick of her wand, the puddle of water that had formed on the table vanished, and then with another _Crack!_ she disappeared. This time, for good.

It wasn't long before the living room door opened again, and his dad slinked into the room. Staring between the chaotic state of the table that had water still dripping onto the carpet, and the elated figure of his son, who was holding a real wand of his own, he finally asked, “Erm, what's the strange sulphuric smell?”

Mark grinned. This would be an awesome story; there was so much to tell.

~ * ~ * ~

The next two weeks rushed by in a whirl of preparation and excitement. But finally Mark's trunk was packed with all of his wizarding school stuff, as well as his favourite reading, card games, his teddy-bear, and last-minute presents from his parents. And with that, they were off to King's Cross. When they reached the station, it was already half past ten, so they had to hurry to get the train.

“So, this is platform nine, next should be... platform ten?”

“Well, platform nine and three-quarters should be somewhere in the middle.”

“Right, genius.”

“As if you know any better.”

Mark grimaced. It was a sure sign of his parents' taut nerves that they were bickering like that. He was pretty sure that it was a mixture of worry about him, worry about being late, everything being new, and again, worry about sending him off to some foreign school.

His mother whipped out the directions letter, while his father stopped the trolley somewhere on level between platforms nine and ten. Mark looked around the station that was crowded with ordinary looking people. He had not really expected everyone to run around like it was Halloween, but he was still the slightest bit disappointed.

“Okay, this here says you should, er, walk _through_ the barrier.”

“_Through?_ B-but how?” Incredulous, he stared between his parents. Both of them looked at a loss, and simply shrugged.

The minute hand of the station's clock ticked on to forty-five, and they still stood gazing helplessly at each other. Then, suddenly, Mark's mum let out a yelp when a trolley almost barrelled into her and her husband.

“Sorry,” the man pushing it mumbled, without even turning around, as he hastened past them. A blond woman hurried behind, and she was followed by a disgruntled looking teenager, who was clutching a multi-coloured cat. All three of them were wearing black coats.

“Celine!” the woman shouted at her daughter, who quickened her pace a tiny bit.

Mark turned to look at the man again, but he appeared to have disappeared. Frowning, Mark stared at the woman, who now was confidently approaching the barrier between platforms nine and ten. She didn't stop, though, as he had expected, and suddenly she was... gone.

“Ah!” Mark's dad exclaimed, obviously having observed this as well. All three of them watched as the girl followed her parents through the barrier.

“So that's how it works...” Mark's dad mused.

“I guess...”

“Hmm... Well, anyway, we can't come with you, and you'd better hurry: we've only got eight minutes.” His father pushed the trolley to the barrier, and Mark and his mum quickly followed him. In front of the barrier they stopped again.

Mark bit his lips. “Yeah, well... bye then.”

His mum had started crying, and now hugged him as if she'd never see him again. “Goodbye, Mark,” she sobbed. “Have a good term.”

“It's all right, Mum. I'll be back in a few months. I’ll write.”

“Do take care, sweetie!” Mark nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Goodbye, son. Have fun, and don't forget to write.” His dad hugged him as well, then gently nudged him into the direction of the barrier.

“Bye, Mum. Bye, Dad. See you in December!”

After a last wave, Mark pushed the trolley through the barrier with his eyes squeezed closed. When he opened them again, he found himself on a large platform where a huge scarlet train was billowing steam. The platform itself was almost empty by now. The few remaining people were mostly adults seeing off their children, while the last younger stragglers hastened to get onto the train. Mark turned around to look at the barrier, but to his surprise it had been replaced by a looming arch with _‘Platform Nine and Three-Quarters’_ written on it.

As he looked, the air under the arch quivered and two more students stepped onto the platform, and then sped towards the train without paying him the least of attention. One of them had a cage with an owl perched onto his trolley.

“Stop dithering, boy. The train is ready to leave,” a conductor in a scarlet uniform admonished him, but still he was kind enough to help him heave his trunk onto the train. Mark thanked him, and the conductor nodded. Then he raised his arm and blew his whistle. There was a pause, and then a lurch, and with a stamping sound the train started getting into motion. As the train was gathering speed, Mark looked out the window. He felt a twist in the region of his stomach as he watched other parents waving off their children. It was only now that he realized that he now truly was on his own.

~ * ~ * ~

He was pulled out of his musings when a boy with brown hair and a stubbed nose waved a hand in front of his face. “Hullo, you're looking sort of lost. I suspect you're a first year as well. Are you Muggle-born?”

Mark must have looked really confused at that, because the boy and another slightly taller, dark-haired boy, whom Mark had not noticed earlier, started laughing, though not in an unfriendly way.

“I take that as a ‘yes.’” The boy grinned, while the other one raked a hand through his hair and smiled apologetically. “Muggle-born means your parents aren't wizards themselves. Mine and Eric's are. Yours aren't.”

He paused just long enough for Mark, who now remembered the word from Flitwick's explanation, to shake his head, then introduced himself and his friend. “My name's Gilbert Macmillan, and this is Eric Plumpton. He's a bit shy sometimes, but really all right. Who're you?”

“Er, Mark Evans. Umm, hi,” Mark greeted nervously. He rather hoped the boy - Gilbert - would continue talking, as that meant he wouldn't have to say a lot.

“Hey,” Eric returned hoarsely and smiled, blushing slightly.

“You can come into our compartment if you want,” Gilbert continued, waving his hands about. “We're just back from the Prefects' carriage. My brother's a Prefect, you know.”

Mark couldn't help grinning at that invitation. “Well, yeah, that'd be nice.”

The two boys helped him put away his trunk, and then all three of them settled down, Mark nervously gazing at the other boys.

“So, if your parents are Muggles, what do they do?” Gilbert finally asked curiously, whether to relieve the silence or to hear himself talk, Mark could not say.

Still, he found he liked him, and as they started chatting, Eric opened up a bit, too. Eric was in the middle of a complicated explanation of Quidditch rules when the door slid open, and a black girl, who had a very wide mouth, looked into the compartment. “Oh, hi. Would you mind if I joined you?”

When they shook their heads, she opened the door wide and pulled her trunk into the room. Eric jumped up to help her at once, and with all of them helping, they stowed it in the luggage rack in no time.

“Thanks, guys.” The girl smiled, her mouth growing even wider. “Are you new as well?”

All of them nodded. Before she could continue interviewing them with yes-or-no questions, Gilbert introduced himself, Eric and Mark, and the girl introduced herself as “Lucilla Rebecca Lawson, but don't you dare make fun of that - I'm Lucy, or else.”

Mark found her energetic presence somewhat daunting, especially as she was nearly as talkative as Gilbert. If they didn't take care, he and Eric would be completely steamrollered by these two. Still, she seemed nice, and as the train rolled along, they continued getting to know each other.

“What houses do you think you'll be in?” Lucy eventually asked.

“_Ravenclaw_,” Eric replied promptly. Mark had no idea what they were talking about, and though he smiled politely, he supposed it showed.

“My brother Ernie is in Hufflepuff, as was all my family, so I suppose I'll be as well,” Gilbert told the others. “Apart from that, there's Gryffindor and Ravenclaw and Slytherin,” he explained for Mark's benefit.

“My mother was in Ravenclaw,” Lucy answered her own question. “But _her_ father was a Slytherin, so I guess I might end up in either.”

“You don't want to land in Slytherin,” Gilbert advised her.

“Why not?” Mark questioned.

“Well, _You-Know-Who_ was in Slytherin, as well as many other dark wizards.” Mark had no idea who ‘You-Know-Who’ was supposed to be, but judging from Eric and Lucy's grim faces, they knew, and he didn't want to appear totally stupid in front of his new friends.

“Oh. What about the others?”

“Each house has a theme, did you know that?” When Mark shook his head, Lucy continued, “Ravenclaw is for the clever ones, Slytherin's main trait is ambition, Hufflepuff's is loyalty –”

“- and hard work,” Gilbert chimed in.

“Yes, and hard work. And Gryffindors are supposed to be brave.”

“Harry Potter is a Gryffindor,” Eric commented. “You've heard of him, surely.”

Mark nodded distractedly, wondering what on earth Potter had to do with anything.

Before that mystery could be solved, however, something completely different happened. Suddenly, the door was thrown open wide. “Did you know that there's a new Professor on the train? They say –”

A curly-haired boy who looked to be a few years older than themselves had obviously entered the wrong compartment. Now he stopped and stared at the four of them. “New Huffleduffs!” he sneered, and then turned around to call to someone they could not see.

Gilbert looked enraged at this mockery of Hufflepuff house, and Eric whispered, “Slytherins,” at Mark, who nodded vaguely.

“Oi, you!” the boy shot at them, as two more boys appeared at his shoulder. Mark paled. He could feel Eric shaking next to him. “Yes, you two - what were you talking about?”

The other three had huddled around Mark, and even Gilbert's anger seemed to have abated as soon as the older boy's reinforcement had arrived.

“See what Shuffleduffs they are?” His companions laughed appreciatively. “Maybe we could shuffle them a bit, what do you think?”

“Yeah.” One of his cronies spoke for the first time, and was already waving his wand threateningly.

Mark helplessly looked around the compartment. Eric looked vaguely panicky, while Lucy was gripping her wand forcefully. Mark couldn’t help noticing that her hand was shaking. Gilbert, for his part, seemed to be struck dumb. Great, now it was up to him to save them. Mark fumbled for his wand. If this were a film, he'd come up with some brilliant line now that'd impress everyone, and then he'd, er, somehow show them.

“_Tarantallegra_.”

Mark whirled around. Eric's legs had stopped obeying him, and now he was jumping around in a mockery of a dance.

“Stop it,” he howled. “I don't want to tap dance.”

“Stop it,” the third boy, a large boy with huge teeth, parroted him. “Any moment now he's going to wet himself.” The others joined into his laughter.

“Stop it.” Lucy had jumped up and was now holding her wand quite steady. “Leave him alone.”

“Or you'll what?” the first boy sneered.

“_Rictusempra_,” she shouted fiercely.

At first, Mark didn't see any difference. All three of them were still laughing. But then the first boy, their leader most likely, dropped his wand and held his stomach, still laughing. The other two stopped guffawing and stared at him warily.

“Oi,” the second boy grunted, in credible imitation of their leader. “What did you do?”

“You will pay for that, you know,” the other threatened quietly. One “_Finite Incantatem_” later the dark-haired boy had stopped laughing, and now looked very, very angry.

Lucy had retreated fearfully, though she still held her wand raised. Eric was still hopping about, cursing. Gilbert was desperately trying to imitate the _Finite Incantatem_ spell, but it didn't seem to be working.

Mark had finally extracted his own wand, although he knew it wouldn't be much use because, unlike Lucy, Eric and Gilbert, he had not known about magic all of his life, and, indeed, had never performed a spell before. But he could at least _try_. That _Tarantallegra_ spell was some beginning, at least. Maybe if they incapacitated all three of them... With Eric down, it was three on three which should be fair... if only these boys weren't so much older and stronger and more dangerous than they were. He shuddered. If the worst they could do was force you to dance, it couldn't be that bad. Only there was no guarantee they wouldn't try something really nasty.

Luckily, it never came to that, for in that moment, the door flew open once again, and in the doorway stood none other than - to Mark's complete astonishment - _Harry Potter_. A tall blond girl with very strange glasses was with him, and there appeared to be another boy behind them.

“What's going on?” the other boy asked, while the girl explained, “We heard some commotion. At first we thought it might be a train ghoul, but then we realized –” but no one was really listening, because the boys were now facing each other, ready to duel.

Mark felt both excited and nervous at seeing them standing like that, completely still, carefully watching the other party. For the first time he really _felt_ the magic that surrounded wizards and witches. It was a very weird feeling, and also rather creepy; a bit like the power that surrounded pylons of high voltage.

It was the curly-haired boy who moved first, but the two older boys were quicker. “_Expelliarmus_!” they shouted in unison, and everyone's wands flew into their hands, minus the one the girl had still sticking behind her ear.

Extracting it from her hair, she helpfully murmured, “_Finite Incantatem_,” and Eric finally flopped onto the ground, exhausted. Lucy and Gilbert crouched down next to him and regaled him with How-do-you-feels and Are-you-all-rights. Mark made an attempt to push his way through to them, but the compartment had become positively crowded by now.

All of a sudden, the three aggressors did not look nearly so intimidating anymore. After a moment of hesitation, Potter gave them back their wands, albeit with a “But I'll be reporting that.”

“You're not a Prefect,” one of them grunted.

“Nope, but I'll still be reporting that.”

They did not stay to argue, but fled. The brown-haired boy who had appeared with Potter now apologetically gave Mark and his friends back their wands, and then doubtfully turned to Potter. “You're not really going to report them.”

“No, but Hermione will when I tell her.”

With that, he turned to Mark and looked at him quizzically. “Aren't you Mark Evans, from Little Whinging?”

Mark nodded, suddenly feeling extremely shy.

“I didn't know you were a wizard.”

Mark could only shrug nervously.

“I see.” Potter grinned.

“What happened?” the other boy asked.

“Well, er, they were making fun of us. Calling us, er, Slufflepuffs or something –”

“Shuffleduffs,” Gilbert corrected in a sullen voice.

“Yeah, that, and then they started firing magic...” Mark finished rather lamely.

“You should have told them of the Curse of the Gruffleducks,” the weird girl advised. “Maybe next time.” With that she turned around and left.

They all stared after her. “What's the Curse of the –?” Lucy started, then stopped. “I’m sure there's no such thing as the Curse of –” She turned to Gilbert, who looked equally confused. “Have you ever _heard_ of a Gruffleduck?”

Potter and his friend looked on in silent amusement. Then another girl peeked through the door.

“I've got some messages for Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter,” she explained, sounding out of breath, pressed two rolls of parchment into Potter's friend's - Neville's? - hands, and hastened away.

“We're invited for lunch with Professor Slughorn in compartment C, Harry,” Neville read. “Who's Professor Slughorn?”

“New teacher,” Harry replied, rolling his eyes. “You go on, Neville. I'll come along in a moment.”

Neville nodded, smiled at Mark and his friends, and left the compartment.

“Listen, Mark,” Harry then addressed him. “Don't you worry about the Sorting. Anyone who calls Dudley Dursley names to his face can't _not_ be in Gryffindor.”

Mark grinned at him shyly. He hadn't been that stupid, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

“Besides, my mum's name was ‘Evans’, as well,” Harry added somewhat inconsequentially, then nodded at the four of them and followed his friend.

Whatever they were saying about Harry Potter back at home, Mark thought, he was really a nice guy. And he definitely did not side with his whale of a cousin.

Mark finally registered that his three friends were staring at him. Embarrassed, he grinned at them. “Are you all right, Eric?” he asked, then realized that he'd probably been ‘all right’ for quite some time now.

Ignoring his question Gilbert blurted out what all of them were probably thinking: “How do _you_ know Harry Potter?”

~ * ~ * ~

“So let me get this straight,” Eric took up the topic yet again when they got in line to descend the train at Hogsmeade station. “You're living in the same town as Harry Potter, and everyone thinks he's crazy.”

“Not crazy, no. His family pretends he's some kind of criminal.”

“But that's –” Lucy didn't seem to find her words, which was certainly unusual.

“Well, they can't tell everyone that he's a wizard,” Mark argued reasonably, as he was the last of them to step out onto the platform.

“Do they?” Gilbert asked sceptically.

“_No_. They're explaining his absence with some weird school for criminals.”

“But a criminal!? _Harry Potter_? That's –”

“Preposterous!” Gilbert agreed.

But before they could continue this conversation, a voice cut over the station. “First years to me, please. First years this way!” A woman was waving a lantern from one end of the platform. They slowly made their way in her direction.

When they had reached the woman, Mark looked around. There were about fifty children, all around eleven years old and all of them looking both apprehensive and excited.

“No need to look so scared,” the woman chided. “My name's Professor Grubbly-Plank, and although I'm not a teacher, you might see me occasionally at school. Now I'm here to bring you to Hogwarts the traditional way. The older students ride in carriages, but for you it’s some rite of passage to go by boat.”

With that, she led them down a narrow path until they came to a dark lake where a fleet of little boats was waiting. At the other side of the lake a huge castle could be seen, many of its windows illuminated in the dark.

“Wow,” Eric breathed, and Lucy murmured, “Beautiful.” Mark was gazing open-mouthed at what must be Hogwarts, and even Gilbert looked impressed.

“That's it,” the woman called. “Into the boats now, please, but no more than four in one boat.”

There was a flurry of movement as everyone hastened to climb into a boat. One girl refused to be separated from her friends, but finally everyone had found a place, although the two first years who ended up next to Grubbly-Plank didn't look particularly happy about that. Mark, of course, shared the boat with Gilbert, Eric and Lucy.

With a flick of her wand, Professor Grubbly-Plank sent off the fleet. Mark watched in fascination as their boat sped along the lake, and the castle drew nearer. Once, they had to duck under a curtain of ivy that hid a secret entrance to what appeared to be a cave below the castle. Here the boats stopped at the edge of the lake, and everyone climbed out.

Again, they followed Professor Grubbly-Plank to the front doors of the castle where they were received by a stern-looking witch with her hair in a bun, and a grimy-looking man in an old tailcoat, who was waving a strange contraption at them. Mark thought it looked a bit like that thing security guards used at airports to check for hidden weapons, and indeed it wasn't long before he started weaving through the new students and poking it at them, eyes gleaming maniacally.

“That's enough, Argus,” the stern woman interrupted after a while. “I don't think any of the children will be smuggling anything into the school.” She looked very grave as she said this, which caused the children to gaze at one another uneasily. The man she had called Argus looked disappointed at her proclamation, but after a last jab at a boy in glasses he pocketed the security staff and slinked away, muttering to himself.

The witch sighed to herself, then ushered them all into a chamber off the Entrance Hall where she closed the door and turned to speak to them.

“Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please excuse the necessary security measures, as they will protect you from the increased danger in the wizarding world. My name is Professor McGonagall. I'm the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts and also teach Transfiguration. I also happen to be Head of Gryffindor House, so those of you Sorted into my house might see me a bit more often.” She allowed herself a slight smile at that, which made her look a bit nicer.

“The four houses at Hogwarts are Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slytherin and Hufflepuff. Each of them has its own characteristics, and whatever others might have told you, they are of equal nobility and importance. At Hogwarts, your house will be your family, and you probably will be making most of your friends in that house. Also, along with your house mates, you will be able to earn points for your house by good behaviour, while rule breaking will cause a loss of points. I certainly hope that every one of you, wherever you may be Sorted, will do their house credit and take pride in fighting for the House Cup that will be awarded at the end of each year.

“I will be returning shortly to fetch you all to be Sorted. Bear in mind that the Sorting ceremony is an important event for any young witch or wizard, so while you are waiting, please use the time to make yourselves presentable.”

With a last glance over them, she swept out of the room, and left them to staring around nervously.

“What does she mean with the Sorting?” Mark eventually asked. “How do they do this?”

Gilbert looked uncomfortable. “I don't know. My parents wouldn't tell me, and Ernie said it'd be a surprise. You?”

Eric shrugged. Lucy looked nervous. “What if it's some kind of test? You know, to test your bravery and loyalty and cleverness and stuff.”

“How would they be doing that?”

She shrugged. “I don't know.”

A girl who was standing close by was telling her friends about objects they might have to choose from, and a boy at the other end of the room was talking loudly enough that they could hear him speculating about having to fight a monster.

It was obvious that no one had any clear idea about what was coming. It seemed to be a tradition among wizards to keep the Sorting ceremony a secret, Mark thought. So they all waited anxiously, and when McGonagall opened the door, nobody wanted to be the first to go. Finally Lucy squared her shoulders and moved forwards. Mark, Eric and Gilbert looked at each other, shrugged, and followed. At the door, she looked around and, reassured by their presence, walked out into the Hall. Slowly, others got into line behind them and followed them.

Mark stared around the Great Hall with round eyes, greedy to take everything in. The place looked just like he would have imagined it, only much more fascinating and wonderful. The whole atmosphere was simply _loaded_ with magic. Thousands of lit candles were floating in mid-air, illuminating four long tables where hundreds of black robed students were sitting. Some of them were whispering to each other, others stared at the newcomers. A few smiled, and even waved at what Mark thought were probably their siblings, and indeed, Gilbert waved back at someone - his brother, most likely. Wide-eyed, Mark noticed some… people of a see-through pearly white sheen that could only be _ghosts_.

Professor McGonagall led them up to a fifth table where adult wizards and witches were seated, so Mark concluded they’d have to be the teachers. He smiled when he saw Professor Flitwick among them, but the tiny wizard apparently didn't see him. Finally, Professor McGonagall instructed them to stop and turn, so that now all the first years stood in a line, with their backs to the teachers, and faced the crowd of their future fellow students.

Eric nudged him into the ribs, and when Mark turned to look at him, he pointed at the ceiling. Mark raised his eyes and gasped. For all he could see, he was staring at the sky that was dotted with stars, but this could not be: they were in the middle of a huge castle.

“The ceiling is enchanted to look exactly like the sky at any given moment,” Gilbert explained. “Neat, huh?” Mark nodded in wonderment.

When Mark looked down again, he saw Professor McGonagall carry a small four-legged stool that she placed in front of them, on top of which she put a very dirty and frayed old wizard's hat. Then she silently took a step back and expectantly gazed at the hat. Looking around, Mark saw that everyone else did so as well, though he couldn't fathom why, until a rip in the hat opened wide, and to Mark's complete surprise the hat began to sing.

_More than a thousand years it's been_

_since Hogwarts has been founded._

_The greatest mages ever seen,_

_with powers unabounded,_

_together built this castle strong_

_to hold a thousand years, this long._

_Each house received a noble name._

_The houses share their founders’ fame,_

_and traits, beliefs and values too._

_In other words:_

_The founders' legacy holds true._

_Each chose an animal of stature_

_to represent their very nature._

_Let's hear now how they made that choice,_

_their thoughts and reasons gave a voice:_

_“Eagles”, explained wise Ravenclaw,_

_“symbolize shrewdness, insight, lore.”_

_“Lions”, proclaimed bold Gryffindor,_

_“will fight for all worth fighting for.”_

_“Serpents,” thus spoke sly Slytherin,_

_“are cunning beasts that mean to win.”_

_“Badgers”, defend'd staunch Hufflepuff,_

_“seem unobtrusive, yet they're tough!”_

_Now _my_ job it is to choose for you_

_the house where you'll fit best; it's true:_

_I do exist for to divide you,_

_and that in times like these I rue._

_Yes, I _am_ the Hogwarts Sorting Hat,_

_but now that's something I regret._

_The times are dark, the Dark did rise,_

_thus hark my warning, my advice:_

_For to prevent that Hogwarts fall_

_unite the houses, needed all._

_Stand strong against this common foe_

_and hope will in the darkness glow,_

_but stay divided as before_

_and light might shine, oh, nevermore._

_Now, young wizards, let me Sort you,_

_choose your houses, witches, too._

_Please bear in mind what I have told you,_

_or the school will split in two._

For a moment, there was a deafening silence and then the teachers as well as a few isolated students started clapping. Soon, others took up the move and, looking at each other, the first years joined in.

When the applause had finally dispersed, Professor McGonagall moved in front of the first years. “I will now be calling you in alphabetical order,” she announced. “Once called, each of you please sit on the stool and place the hat on your head, so you can be Sorted. When your house has been decided, quickly go to your respective house's table, so the next first year can be Sorted.”

Mark gulped. Even if McGonagall was right and each house had the same importance - although, judging from the discussion on the Hogwarts Express that might not the case - he still felt unaccountably nervous. The hat was probably right, though, and he could stay friends with Gilbert, Eric and Lucy even if they were Sorted in other houses. At least, he hoped it would work out like that. The song had been rather gloomy in that respect.

“Andrews, Calliope,” McGonagall called, and a tiny girl with pigtails hopped onto the stool.

“Poor girl, with such a name,” Eric muttered to no one in particular. Lucy shot him a dark glance. Before she could argue about ridiculous names, however, the girl was proclaimed a Slytherin, which caused all of them to pay full attention to the Sorting.

“Asterley, Philip” became a Ravenclaw after that, and “Axecroft, Martin” was sent to Hufflepuff.

As McGonagall went over to the B's, Mark felt his nerves flutter again. He hated to be so close to the beginning of the alphabet. All of his friends would be called after him, and now he felt as if he'd have to set a good example.

“Drumble, Derek” was another Slytherin, and then, after much too short a time, it was his turn to go.

“Evans, Mark,” Professor McGonagall read out. Eric clapped him onto the shoulder, while Gilbert smiled at him encouragingly, and Lucy called out, “Good luck!”

Mark took a steadying breath, and then hesitatingly made his way towards the hat that, all of a sudden, looked like it was on the other end of the hall.

“Mark,” the witch repeated impatiently.

_Yes_, Mark thought, the tiniest bit annoyed, _I'm coming_.

“Ma-ark,” she almost chanted, but he had already reached the stool. He took the hat and, dropping down on the stool, gingerly placed it on his head. Nervously, he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for it to speak.

“Hullo, Mark,” the hat said into his ear. Mark opened his eyes.

~ * ~ * ~

He was greeted by his father's delighted smile. “Happy Birthday, kiddo! We thought you'd never wake up.”

Mark blinked. He was lying in his bed; the ceiling looked completely normal, and all of the magical atmosphere had evaporated. _It had been a dream…_

Now his mother took his father's place and planted a kiss on Mark's cheek. “Happy eleventh, sweetheart,” she said, smiling down at him fondly.

Mark blinked back some tears, trying valiantly to hide his disappointment. It had all been a dream, but such a _realistic_ one. Wearily, Mark smiled back at his parents and hoped they wouldn't notice that anything was amiss. Unfortunately, as parents are wont to do, they picked up on it at once.

“Hey, why the long face?” his father inquired in concern. “You didn't want to sleep any longer, did you? I mean, it's your _birthday_!” He shouted the last bit excitedly.

Mark shook his head valiantly. Already, details of the dream were fading, and he wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad.

“We decided to let you sleep in a bit on your special day, but we also wanted to make sure you don't sleep through all of it,” his mother explained.

“'S all right,” Mark muttered, still feeling somewhat dejected. “I just had this wonderful dream...”

“So? Must have been amazing if you don't want to get up on your _birthday_…” his father commented, smiling.

“Yeah,” Mark replied drowsily as he slowly climbed out of bed.

He decided to at least _try_ to feel happy. His dad was right: it was his birthday. That thought alone made him perk up considerably. After all, there was still his new bike that he knew was waiting for him downstairs. And over breakfast, he'd be able to tell his parents all about this strange and imaginative dream. If he remembered it, that was.

For the moment, he hugged both of them and thanked them profusely.

“Hey, but you don't even know what you're getting yet,” his mother said in a slightly teasing tone. “Maybe this cake is all you're getting,” she supplied, pointing at Mark's desk.

Grinning, Mark eyed the enormous chocolate cake. It really looked delicious.

“Not now, young man,” his mother reprimanded. “First you'll be getting ready.”

“But mum...” he wheedled, knowing full well that she wouldn't budge.

All the while, his father was looking on in amusement. Mark shook his head fondly. He loved his parents dearly, but they could be a bit odd sometimes.

Grumbling about the unfairness of it all - more for effect than anything else - he slid into his slippers and started into the direction of the bathroom.

Hmm, maybe he could try talking to that Potter boy. _Hey, I had this weird dream about you._ Then again, maybe he'd rather not. He sighed.

At the door his father called him back. “Umm, and Mark?”

He turned around. “Yes?”

“There appears to be an _owl_ downstairs, waiting for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Oneshot, so it will not be continued. You can assume, though, that the rest of the year happens as it did in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.
> 
> Feel free to leave some comments, but keep in mind that I wrote this in 2005, over 10 years ago. I'd like to think my writing has improved since then. :)


End file.
